Nightcrawlers
by CoolBreeze1
Summary: Just a little self-indulgent whumping fic to get myself back into the writing habit. There's only the thinnest hint of an actual story here, so don't expect too much beyond sick!Shep...Not for the squeamish! Otherwise, no spoilers of any kind.


**NIGHTCRAWLERS**

John woke up suddenly, bolting upright in his bed. It was very late, late enough to maybe even qualify as being very early. He could tell by the darkness that had settled over the room, making it near impossible for him to see anything but the faint outline of his bedroom window.

His stomach clenched treacherously, propelling him from the bed with a desperate lurch. He buried his fist into his gut and staggered through the dark, tripping on the boots set at the end of his bed. By the time he made it to the bathroom exactly three seconds later, his stomach was churning with a horrifying ache. He swiped his hand over the light switch then cringed at the brightness that suddenly pierced his retinas.

He dropped to his knees just as his stomach heaved, and he barely reached the toilet bowl as his body violently expelled everything he had eaten that day. In the back of his mind, he remembered getting food poisoning when he'd first arrived in Afghanistan, but even that hadn't been as bad—and he'd thought he was dying then.

He gagged, heaved, and choked, until there was nothing left but the bitter aftertaste of bile, then let himself sag against the toilet with his head resting against the cool metal of the rim. For all of their advances, the Ancient toilets weren't all that different in design from Earth toilets. A little sleeker maybe, and a metallic gray rather than white—but basically the same functioning. It had intrigued some of the engineers to no end when they'd first arrive on Atlantis, irritating McKay endlessly (and eventually John, who'd had to listen to McKay complain).

He hated being sick. Absolutely _hated_ it. It was the reason he avoided drinking too much, why he was selective with his food, why he stayed away from anything that might result in him throwing up. His abhorrence to vomiting was almost McKay-esque in its intensity. He breathed shallowly, the muscles along his ribcage quivering from exertion. His gut felt a little better but by no means settled. Already it was starting to coil and twist, gearing up for another explosive bout.

He should call someone. Carson. Carson could make this stop. The man had drugs for this kind of thing. His mind kicked and screamed at his body to stand up, to stumble back to bed and grab the radio ear piece sitting on the nightstand, but all he managed was a weak twitch of his right arm.

He groaned, the sound reverberating in the bowl. Had he eaten something weird? Been exposed to some kind of flu or cold virus? He hadn't been off-world in days. On the other hand, they'd only been in the Pegasus Galaxy for a little over a year and a half, leaving plenty of new puke-inducing viruses his body had no defense against. Frankly, he was surprised they didn't all get sick more often. The wonder of the human body.

His stomach was bending in on itself, and he felt the nausea rise up to the back of his throat. He swallowed against the inevitable, grabbing his stomach with both hands, then all at once lost the battle. This bout was impossibly worse than the first one, in part because there really was nothing left for him to throw up. Tears streamed out of the corners of eyes squeezed shut from the violent, jerking paroxysms wracking his body.

On the plus side, at least he was just throwing up. When he'd had food poisoning in Afghanistan, it had come out of both ends and that had just been…revolting. Beyond revolting. The memory of that other sickness crossed his mind just as black dots began to dance across his vision.

Passing out. He was passing out. That sounded like a good thing, but if his body kept trying to vomit while he was out cold…that could kill him. He gripped the sides of the toilet and drew in a ragged breath, chasing away the blackness falling over him but igniting another choking series of gagging and spitting.

He opened his eyes to see a long strand of black bile dripping into the bowl. The sight was almost enough to prompt another upheaval in his gut but he forced himself to cough instead, to clear the liquid from his mouth. He could feel it hanging from his tongue, a long slimy black strand reaching into the back of his throat.

And then it moved. John jerked his eyes open at the sensation of…something…wiggling in his throat. His stomach was starting to twist and churn again but whatever was in his throat was stuck. He looked down to see the black string of bile still hanging halfway out of his mouth, following it down to where it met the foul-smelling water.

He couldn't see anything beyond the surface of the brownish-colored water, and he reached a shaking hand up to flush it, missing by inches. After the third attempt at finding the flusher without looking failed, he gave up and just let his head hang over the grotesque bowl. The end of black string disappeared into the water, and John closed his eyes.

Maybe he had imagined it—the sensation of it moving. It wasn't moving now. As soon as that possibility crossed his mind, the string quivered, and something flopped inside of his stomach, pulling at the nerves all the way up his esophagus. In a moment of utter serendipity, John opened his eyes just as the black strand squirmed again and a small black head broke the surface of the water. It twitched once, a tiny pink tongue flicking out of its mouth.

John gave a hoarse, broken cry, startling out of his fugue. He acted without thought, grabbing the thin strand and jerking. The worm or snake—whatever it was—resisted, but he pulled desperately with adrenaline-induced strength. He could feel the end of it traveling up his throat and flicking against the back of his front teeth before it dropped into the water with a splash.

He fell backward scrambling away from the toilet and smacking his shoulder blades into the wall. Help. He had to call for help. The infirmary. Carson. Ronon. Gun. Ronon with his gun. His mouth still tasted of sour, bitter vomit, and he tried to swallow without actually tasting anything, like he could mentally will his taste buds to go dormant for a few minutes or a few hours.

He didn't have the strength to stand, but somehow he managed to crawl across his bedroom to the nightstand to grab the radio. He was shivering violently, a deep ache building in his joints.

"…'fi..rrrmrr-y…" he stuttered. He swallowed again, and this time his tongue pressed up against the roof of his mouth. An oily film coated everything—tongue, teeth, gums—and he almost gagged, but he lowered himself to the floor and curled up around the fist pressing into his stomach.

"Did someone call for the infirmary?" a voice said. It sounded vaguely familiar, maybe one of the techs in the control room.

"Infir-firm…ry…" John gasped out again.

"Infirmary," another voice answered, and John sagged in relief at the distinct but tired lilt of Carson Beckett on the other side. "Who is this? Are you in trouble?"

John nodded, only half-aware that Carson could not see him. "Help," he muttered.

"Colonel Sheppard is that you?"

John didn't quite manage to answer that, but his whimpering moan seemed to be enough. Voices floated over the radio between the infirmary and the control room as they scanned for John's life sign and pinpointed his location.

"We're on our way to you now, lad. Just hold on."

John nodded again. His stomach was starting to twist again, like a rope had been wrapped around his organ and was being pulled taut. Or not a rope. Another snake thing? He let out a ragged breath and wrapped both arms around his stomach, drawing his knees up into the fetal position.

* * *

"Can you tell me what's wrong? Are you sick or hurt?"

Carson plied John with questions, huffing through the radio as he ran to John's room. It was almost 4 am, and he'd been dozing in his office. The night had passed peacefully, and he'd almost believed he get through his on-call shift without incident.

He was wide awake now. He jumped into the transporter and the instantaneous travel wasn't nearly fast enough. A flash and a blink later, the doors slid open and he sprinted down another hallway. John wasn't answering his questions, so whatever was wrong with him had to be bad. He rounded a corner and heard the distinctive sound of flesh pounding against metal.

"Sheppard! Open up!"

Ronon? What was he doing up at this hour? Carson pumped his legs faster, ignoring the way his medical bag bounced into his back, the straps digging into the flesh of his shoulder. A quiet whimper traveled through the radio—John. What could have possibly happened to him in his own room?

Most incidents requiring medical attention happened at home, but John wasn't exactly the ungraceful or accident-prone type. Carson could feel his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, spurred on my adrenaline, the anxiety of what he might find in John's room, and the mad sprint through the hallways of Atlantis.

"Come on, buddy."

Ronon was standing at the door, both fists and an ear pressed against the door. Carson ran up, waving the man aside and breathing hard. He had no oxygen to tell him to move, but Ronon did so anyway, standing back while Carson used his medical override.

The door slid open, spilling light into the dark room. Well, not completely dark. The bathroom light was on and Carson could smell the sour stench of vomit. So he was sick, then. Not injured.

He scanned the room, finding John curled up on the floor in front of his bed. He was barefoot and wearing only his track pants and a thin t-shirt. Even from this distance, Carson could see he was shaking.

Ronon jumped forward, kneeling down next to John. "Sheppard?"

Carson followed, resting a hand on the bigger man's shoulder. "Out of my way, son. Let me take a look at him," he said, his oxygen-starved lungs finally pulling in enough air to allow him to talk. Ronon shifted, and Carson took his place. He rested his hand on John's upper arm, feeling the whole-body shudders jolt through him. John opened his eyes slightly, looking dazed and glassy.

"Get the lights," Carson called out.

John jerked at the sudden brightness and grunted. He had both arms wrapped around his stomach, and the stench of vomit was strong. Carson grabbed one wrist and wrapped his fingers around the pulse point.

"He threw up," Ronon stated.

"Aye, I know," Carson responded. He leaned closer to John, whispering. "Are you sick, John? What hurts?"

John balled his fist a little tighter into his gut, answer enough for Carson.

"Alright, lad." He moved gently but not gently enough, and John moaned and whimpered through the brief examination. Carson could see the man's jaw was clamped shut, the muscles in his face quivering from the effort.

"We're going to roll you onto your back," Carson warned, then began pressing onto John's shoulder. Ronon kneeled near his feet, grabbing onto his ankles and straightening his legs out. Behind them, Carson heard the medical team arrive, the clattering wheels of the gurney unmistakable.

Halfway through the motion, John jerked under Carson's hands. He screamed, or tried to. Not much sound escaped through his gritted teeth. He threw his head into the floor and arched his back, burying both fists into his stomach again. His legs flailed, but Ronon caught them easily and set them on the floor, completing the roll.

"Easy, easy, John. It's okay," Carson soothed. Sweat had broken out across John's pale face, beading and dripping down his face. Carson pressed the back of his fingers into the sick man's forehead expecting to feel a flush of heat, but instead the skin was cool and clammy.

Carson ran through his vital checks has fast as he could, not liking what he was finding. Whatever was wrong with him, it was serious. If this was the flu, it was a violent one. He began running through possible illnesses in his mind, and their corresponding protocols. If this was contagious, they'd have to quarantine this entire residential wing at the very least.

"Lynn," Carson called out, glancing over his shoulder to the medical team waiting behind him. One of the nurses moved forward, her long dark hair falling out of its bun. She looked frazzled and half-asleep. "He threw up in the bathroom. I need you to get a sample if you can."

"Yes, Doctor Beckett," she replied stepping toward the bathroom.

John twisted underneath him, grabbing Carson's arm. He looked like he was about to say something, but instead he began gagging then choking.

"Roll him on his side."

Ronon had stepped back and the remaining members of the medical team swarmed in, moving with assurance and efficacy. John was rolled onto his side, and the choking turned to heaving coughs. Carson held his head steady, watching the man's body jerk and shake, rebelling at whatever was attacking his immune system.

"Get that gurney over here," Carson called out, then heard the distinctive gurgle as John began to throw up. He looked down, and froze at the bright red liquid dripping out of his mouth, covering his chin and pooling on the ground underneath his head.

"Bloody hell!" Carson cried at the same time as the nurse screeched from the bathroom. Carson looked up to see Lynn backpedaling out of the bathroom, her face ghostly white. John went limp beneath his hands.

Ronon was already moving toward the bathroom, his gun pulled and pointed dangerously in front of him. The nurse was pointing at something inside with a shaking finger, but whatever had frightened her would have to wait. The medical team moved as one, lifting John onto the gurney. The man's pallor was gray, the blood standing out in sharp defiance.

"Let's move, people," Carson ordered. Within seconds they were out of the room and barreling down the hallway. John's eyes fluttered the entire way, and while Carson didn't think he was completely unconscious, he definitely wasn't all there. A few long minutes later, they ran into the infirmary and transferred John to an exam bed. The nurses made quick work of his clothes, stripping him down and attaching heart monitor leads, pulse-ox clip, blood pressure cuff, IV. By that time, a security team had arrived and quarantine protocols enacted.

Carson subconsciously noted all of these things, focusing instead on the ashen-faced man in front of him. He moved to the head of the bed, studying the monitors with an expert eye. John's vitals were not good. He ordered the flow of oxygen to be increased and a second IV started. What the hell was wrong with the man? He had seen him at dinner the evening before, and he'd seemed perfectly healthy. Was this simply food poisoning? Food poisoning could cause serious illness, and if they were on Earth that would be his first conclusion, but out here in Pegasus…

"Someone contact Ronon, or Teyla or Rodney—wake them up if you have to. I need to know what Colonel Sheppard ate for dinner last night and if anyone else is sick."

Yet the infirmary was quiet—had been quiet all night until John's desperate call. If it was food poisoning, there should be more than just one person sick. Half of the expedition should be in here clamoring for relief. More possibilities floated through Carson's mind, some dismissed instantly, others shuffled off to the side pending further investigation.

John's eyes began fluttering open as the nurse was drawing his blood, and Carson leaned over, holding the man's face with both hands. "John? I need you to wake up a little more."

John twitched, trying to turn away from Carson's voice, but he held firm. "John, wake up. You need to answer some questions for us."

He groaned, opening his eyes barely more than halfway. His gaze was glassy and unfocused, and he licked dry lips under the oxygen mask. Luckily a nurse had cleaned off his face, but Carson imagined the taste in his mouth couldn't be pleasant. He tapped John on the cheek.

"John, are you in any pain right now?"

John blinked, considering the question for a moment then waved weakly toward his stomach.

"Does your stomach still hurt?"

Nod—yes.

"Do you feel nauseous at all? Do you think you might be sick again soon?"

John swallowed visibly then shrugged a little, unclear how his body might react in the next few minutes. A sheet had been pulled up to John's chest, but Carson pulled it down to his waist and rested a hand on his bare stomach. John shuddered underneath him, wincing slightly.

"Did you feel sick early tonight?"

John shook his head and Carson bit his lip.

"Did this come on suddenly?"

John nodded, looking almost relieved that Carson seemed to be on the right track to figuring out what was wrong. In truth, Carson had no idea what was going on and wouldn't know until some of the test results started coming back.

"I'm going to press against your stomach, and I need you to tell me if some areas hurt more than others. Do you understand?"

At John's affirmative—though nervous—response, Carson's pressed gently into his stomach.

John screamed—an all-out, blood-curling shriek of pure, unadulterated pain—and jack-knifed off the table. Alarms on half the monitors went off, and medical personnel dove toward him, catching his flailing limps. John's eyes rolled around in his head but he was clearly still unmercifully conscious. The scream cut off abruptly, replaced immediately with choking gags.

The order to roll John onto his side was on the tip of his tongue, but his staff was already reacting. The nurse, Lynn, was back, still pale but looking determined and holding a basin with steady hands under John's mouth. Someone else had lifted the oxygen mask and Carson had just turned around to order the Ancient scanner be booted up when Ronon burst through the infirmary doors.

"Doc!" he yelled, more anxious than Carson had ever heard him. He held a glass in one hand and had slapped his palm over the top of it. Inside, Carson could see dark, murky water.

"What is that?"

"From Sheppard's toilet," Ronon breathed out. "I think it's still alive."

That caught Carson's full attention. John was coughing weakly behind him, but his staff seemed to have everything under control. "Alive? What's still alive?"

He peered closer at the glass. Ronon gave it a shake, and then something thin and black slid up against the clear wall of the cup. Carson reared backward, repulsed, but he forced himself to tap a finger against the side. The thin black line moved, slithering in a coil inside the cup. A small head popped up above the surface of the liquid and dangerously close to Ronon's hand.

"What the hell?" He dove toward the nearest lab bench, grabbing a square Tupperware-like container with a lid. He held it out to Ronon, who dumped the contents of the glass quickly into it. The container was bigger than the glass, the liquid barely covering the bottom, and the thin, worm-like creature lay clearly visible at the bottom.

And it was agitated. It slithered around in long, oily loops, eventually raising its head and poking at the side. Carson slammed the lid on it and thrust it back into Ronon's hands.

"Get this down to the lab, now. I need to know what that thing is and if it's behind what's making John so sick."

"Carson!" a voice screeched behind him. Carson spun around to see everyone around his patient take a collective step backward.

"What's going on?" he yelled as he rushed forward, then forced himself to take a deep breath. He needed to calm down. If he was calm, then the people around him would be calm. Or maybe calmer…a little calmer…

"That thing…in the toilet," Lynn whispered then pointed at John's head.

No one had yet to move back to John's side. Carson took a tentative step forward and leaned closer to him.

John was still on his side, but he had stopped gagging and coughing. His exposed flank rose and fell in rapid pants. His mouth was open, and every breath spit flecks of blood and saliva over his pillow. His entire body—at least what Carson could see of it—was covered in a sheen of sweat, the skin ashen underneath.

John's eyes were open but he stared unseeing. Carson reached a hand out and brushed the man's hair back, again expecting the fever flush of heat. The skin was still cool, almost cold. John did not react to the touch. Carson leaned closer, trying to get a look at the man's eyes when he caught a quick flicker of something thin and black in John's mouth.

Carson's breath caught in his throat, and he felt the infirmary tilt around him as the blood rushed from his head. He gripped the sides of the mattress but managed not to scream or cry out. Now more than ever he had to remain calm.

"I need warm blankets. This man is freezing. I also need a pair of tongs and some kind of clamp. And a container. The rest of you are going to help me move him to the Ancient scanner. We're going to do this slowly and carefully, jarring Colonel Sheppard as little as possible."

Carson's calm, almost monotonous tone worked. The staff around him jerked out of their frozen states and scrambled to fulfill his commands. Within seconds, John's shivering body was covered with warm blankets pulled all the way up to his neck. Carson was presented with a whole array of tongs and clamps, and he selected one of the smaller ones.

John continued to stare straight ahead, looking catatonic. Carson's professional side noted it all while the other side of him fought the urge to scream in squeamish reaction and hide under his desk. His hands shook slightly as held the tong out toward John's mouth.

"I'm going to see if I can catch a hold of the end of that thing to keep it from sliding back down into his stomach. It doesn't seem to be interfering with his breathing too much, but I want the oxygen mask replaced with a nasal cannula." He looked up at his people and pointed to Nichols, a large man and ex-Marine medic, now a nurse.

"Nichols, grab a hold of Colonel Sheppard's head, gently. Hold it steady for me, lad."

"Yes, sir."

"Once I clamp down on the end of this thing, we'll move him to the scanner. The sooner we remove it, the better, but I'm not about to just yank it out." He glanced again at his team and saw them nod in confirmation.

"Alright, son," he whispered, the tong steadying in his hand. "We'll have that thing out of you in no time."

* * *

John was only marginally aware of people around him, and for awhile he was aware of nothing at all, but gradually, the fog began to lift. He blinked and the wall of the infirmary came into focus in front of him. Sun streamed through the thin curtains over the window, giving the room a bright, warm glow.

He felt nothing, really, besides a heavy, relaxed fatigue. He stayed lying on his side facing the wall, not wanting to break whatever numbing spell had been cast over him. Behind him, he could hear the steady tell-tale beep of the heart monitor. The cuff on his arm inflated until it was almost painful, then clicked and deflated.

John had no idea how long he lay there. He must have drifted off again because when he next opened his eyes, the light in the room was different—brighter in some ways but not hitting the window directly. He was still on his side, but the numbness had lifted a little, and a deep ache was building in his muscles.

He rolled onto his back as slowly as he could manage and stretched out his legs. His stomach was sore, like he'd been beaten up. The heart monitor sped up a little, but the blood pressure cuff had been removed, and he rolled his shoulders. His neck was stiff—he'd been lying in one position for too long.

He was wearing a nasal cannula, and it was itching his nose. The IV in his hand pinched and one of the heart monitor leads was pulling against his chest hair. The discomforts and abuses his body had suffered were beginning to make themselves known, loudly. He swallowed against the dry, foul taste in his mouth and almost whimpered at the raw agony in his throat.

He'd been sick. He vaguely remembered that. He'd woken up in the middle of the night and stumbled to the bathroom. The memory of the endless heaves and spasms came back to him suddenly and he moved his hands to cover his stomach. At least he wasn't nauseas anymore—he hadn't been that sick in a really long time. That would explain the foul taste in his mouth and the raking pain from his throat all the way down the center of his chest.

Somehow he'd made it to the infirmary. He remembered Carson and Ronon both bending over him, asking him questions. He'd tried to answer but he hadn't been able to say anything. He'd still been sick, still on the verge of throwing up…

The black string, thin and oily and wriggling in his throat.

He saw it clearly in his mind, hanging from his mouth. The head had poked back up out of the water and he'd ripped at it with his hand, its body warm and slick…and solid. Something inside of it had crunched as he'd squeezed…

He flew up out of the bed, the heart monitor wailing, just as Carson Beckett walked in to the small isolation room. The doctor looked up from the chart in his hands, startled, then leapt forward and grabbed John's flailing arms.

John was scrambling on the bed, his hands pushing and pulling at his stomach and throat—trying to both protect and rip through the flesh to the memory underneath. His feet kicked underneath him and he could feel his throat closing, cutting off his air. There was another worm or snake. There was something in there blocking his throat.

"Out…" he pleaded, but he could feel his momentary burst of strength failing already. "Out…out…"

"Easy, John. Calm down," Beckett was saying. The doctor had grabbed both his wrists, effectively ending John's struggle. "It's gone—we got it out."

John stopped, flopping forward in exhaustion. Beckett cried out in surprise and shifted, and the next thing he knew the doctor had an arm behind his back and was lowering him back onto the bed. John's chest still rose and fell with panicked gasps, and his stomach coiled with remembered threat.

"That's it, you're alright," Beckett murmured.

John frowned, shaking his head. Sick, he was going to be sick again. He reached a hand up toward Beckett and grabbed the doctor's sleeve. He coughed, which turned rapidly into a gag. He choked it back on a gasp.

Beckett's eyes opened wide, and he lifted John up to a sitting position. John could feel the doctor rubbing small, soothing circles in his back as he whispered something, but it took another minute before he was able to swallow the urge to throw up.

"Try not to throw up, John. That's the last thing your body needs now," Beckett whispered, oblivious that John had come to that conclusion already.

Gradually, he calmed down, and with Beckett's helped laid back down. The head of the bed had been raised slightly, and John felt a little less vulnerable. His hoarse request for water was met with pursed lips, but the doctor eventually held out a glass and warned him to take small sips. Too soon, he pulled the glass away then proceeded to examine him.

John watched him with resignation. The doctor didn't seem to be in any particular panic so everything should be fine, but John could still feel his heart thudding rapidly in his chest. Beckett pulled up a chair and sat down, contemplating him for a moment. John felt something twist in his stomach, and he flashed again to the worm. It was gone, though, wasn't it? Hadn't Beckett said it was gone?

"I'm not sure how much you remember, but you had quite the rough night."

John nodded. He remembered too much of the night. "It's gone, though?"

His voice was low and rough, cracking painfully. He swallowed and felt an aching burn run along the back of his throat. Carson rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion etched into every wrinkled line.

"Aye, we got them all."

He might have said more, but John jerked up again and choked out, "Them?"

Beckett immediately put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him easily back to the bed. "Yes, and they're gone. From what we have gathered so far, they look similar to the types of parasitic worms we might find on Earth, but they seem to function differently. I won't bore you with details. Luckily, they hadn't moved past your stomach and into your intestinal track."

"Lucky?" John whispered.

Beckett laughed quietly. "It's all relative, I suppose. How do you feel now? Any nausea or pain?"

John paused a moment, pressing a hand into his stomach. He felt a little battered, but nothing even approaching what he'd felt like the night before.

"Little sore maybe. Tired."

"I'm not surprised. We found two worms—one you had already thrown up, and then we were able to pull the other one out through your mouth, which caused a bit of bleeding in your esophagus, but that seems to have resolved fairly quickly. That being said, you're going to need to take it easy for a few days and be careful with what you eat. I want to keep you here at least a couple of days."

If Beckett was expecting an argument, he was disappointed. John just nodded, too tired to fight. The thought of more worms in his stomach frankly freaked him out enough that he didn't want to stray too far from medical help until he was certain they were gone. Speaking of which…

"Where'd they come from?"

"MKP-277," Ronon answered, appearing at the door and leaning against the frame. He looked smug, like he was enjoying a joke no one else knew about. "Security got a call about half an hour ago that something was going on in the kitchen. Apparently one of the chefs pulled out a container of those hollow green fruits from MKP-277 and there were half a dozen black worms slithering along the bottom."

Beckett groaned, and John felt his stomach flip-flop at the thought of those things slithering around in their food. He reached a hand out for the doctor and caught his sleeve, deciding he was actually feeling a little queasy.

"Sick," he mumbled.

Beckett jumped into motion in somewhat more of a panicked flurry than John expected. Ronon's grin had dropped as he looked John over, asking silently if he was alright. John shrugged just as a bite of cold raced up his arm.

"That should settle your stomach, lad. Call if you need anything else, but in the meantime, I want you to get some rest."

The stomach medication was acting quickly and he felt his gut quiet down almost immediately. His eyes also began to droop closed. He blinked a few times, sinking into the mattress.

Beckett had left, but Ronon was still there and he pulled up the chair next to John's bed, throwing his legs up on the end of the mattress.

"You gonna be okay?"

John made some kind of an attempt at a response, but it came out more as a grunt than anything intelligible. He nodded, though, which seemed to satisfy Ronon. His eyes drifted closed, but he forced them open again to look at the runner.

"It's okay, Sheppard. Go to sleep," Ronon responded. He'd pulled out his blaster was idly flipping it around his finger, first one direction then the other.

"Hate being sick," John mumbled.

"You think this is sick? I should take you to this place called Elaphus. They've got his home-brewed stuff that tastes kind of sweet going down then literally explodes inside of you. One mug of that will drop the strongest man; two has been known to kill. I love that place…"

John—wisely—allowed sleep to drag him under before any further response was required.

**END**


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